Midnight Haven
by Alias the Silent One
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a criminal who became a newsboy leader, a nightclub that became a nightmare, and a grudge that became chaos. A pre-strike story explaining much about our Manhattan boys, told by someone who saw it all.
1. Prologue

Author's Note: For most of this, the first chapter, it may seem as if this story has nothing to do with _Newsies_ or the plot thereof and the characters therein. I am _begging_ you on my knees to bear with me. I promise that after this chapter, it will quickly become clear that the story is extremely focused on the aforementioned subjects, and that my OC's and the subplots they create are only there to flesh out the fic. _Merci beaucoup _for your understanding, and I hope you may enjoy.

Oh, yes...I am a review whore...one click of that button, a few lines of type, and I'm at your service forever.

Midnight Haven  By Alias

On a moonless autumn night, in a narrow brick alley, in the infamous section of New York City known as Five Points, a boy was shoved against one of the two walls that formed the alleyway. His assailant, a boy much older and larger than himself, held a blade to his throat. The victim closed his eyes, accepting the fate that he had been anticipating for all the years he had spent on the streets. He could not silence the pounding of his heart or steady the trembling of his hands, but aside from the physical consequences of his predicament, the adrenaline that inevitably rushed through his body, he was not afraid. Three faces appeared, vivid, in his mind, serenely waiting, and he was almost glad.

            But before the cold, sharp edge of steel against his neck perform its fatal task, a voice spoke from close behind the wielder of the blade, a soft and light voice, void of all emotion except a commanding tone.

            "Let him go."

            The younger boy felt the edge of metal slide ever so slightly against the fragile skin it touched, as its bearer turned to view the one who dared to issue such an order. A moment later, the knife clattered to the bricks with a sound that bounced off the walls enclosing the alley, throwing its echoes out into the pitch-black night as the weapon's owner fled without a backward glance.

            Deprived of the muscled hand that had pinned him to the wall, the boy collapsed onto the icy bricks, overcome by the injuries he had received from his attacker. A thin crimson stream leaked from his head where it had struck the wall, and his left arm also bled rusty stains onto the surface where he lay. One arm was undoubtedly broken, and perhaps the other as well; his eyes were blackened, his nose gushing a scarlet river, his lip split and his body decorated with a gothic rainbow of bruises. The waves of pain that broke over him were so powerful that a scream surfaced in his throat, struggling to be torn from his lungs in protest at the volume of this physical agony, though it emerged as nothing more than a harsh, strangled gasp.

            "Mother of God," proclaimed a velvet whisper, a voice other than that which had ordered the would-be murderer away. A girl knelt gingerly beside the boy, cupping his face and turning it toward her with a roughness that was clearly unintentional, administered by a hand unaccustomed to gentle purposes.

            "What happened, kid?"

            "Nothin'." He was amazed that he could speak, that he would even be motivated to speak by such a pointless and meaningless question, coming from a stranger who only wished to satiate her crude, natural human curiosity. "I made a mistake," he murmured wryly, blood bubbling from his lip and trailing down his chin with each syllable. The sound of his own voice was alien to his ears, like sandpaper scraping over splinter-studded wood.

            "One hell of a mistake, I guess."

            The girl leaned over him, and he caught a flash of steel in her hand. She had not retrieved the knife that had come so close to spilling the last of his blood; this was a switchblade, her own, which she quickly flipped shut and pocketed when she saw his eyes on it.

            "I ain't gonna hurt ya, kid."

            How could she? She was tiny, he could see as he squinted in the suffocating darkness; the body of an adolescent, but in miniature proportions. Her voice was feathery and sweet, and she had a face to match, resembling that of an innocent child. But the doll face was scarred, the hands that took one of his between them were like leather, and the switchblade still gleamed in his mind's eye, like black wings on an angel.

            "Get outta here." With an effort that sent flames of pain burning down his neck and back, the boy turned his face away. "He'll be back, or someone else'll come. No girl in her right mind sits in an alley in Five Points at night. Get away."

            He wanted to die alone. To have someone else, a stranger, witness his death, would be crude, almost embarassing.

            "No one will come. Not with Dire here." She nodded toward the entrance of the alley, where the tall, muscled form of a boy was silhouetted by the hazy gleam of a street lamp behind him. Perhaps he had been the source of the forbidding voice which had postponed the inevitable. The boy on the ground sighed raggedly and closed his eyes, too tired to argue. So tired.

            "Don't go to sleep on me," the girl ordered coldly. He felt his head lifted, causing another explosion of pain that nearly stole his consciousness, and something soft and heavy was wound around the gash. For a few moments, pressure was applied with this makeshift bandage, and when it stopped, so had the bleeding. Carefully, he was lowered back to the ground, his head cushioned in what seemed to be a shirt or vest of some sort, probably donated by the young guard called Dire.

            Dizzy, nauseous, half-conscious, the boy watched blurry visions of figures moving around him. He felt his arms and legs lifted, inspected, the remainders of his tattered shirt torn away. Someone sucked in her breath sharply, and more dressings bound various throbbing parts of his anatomy. When at last his vision cleared, the other forms had vanished, leaving no evidence of whether they had been there at all, or mere phantoms conjured by the wandering mind of a dying child. Only the girl remained, sitting beside him with her knees drawn to her chest and her elbows rested on them, her chin cupped in her hands.

            "That's better," she informed him as he blinked in confusion, his hand twitching in hers. "I told you not to go to sleep."

            "Can't help it," he replied faintly. "Too tired."

            "I'll keep you awake, then."

            "How?"

            The girl paused, her lips pursing together and her eyes closing softly, then snapping open to hold her patient's gaze so that _his_ eyes would not close.

            "I'm going to tell you a story."

            He would have laughed, except the capacity to recognize humor or lunacy seemed to have leaked out of him among the quarts of blood. It seemed almost right and reasonable, that a porcelain doll with a switchblade should sit by his failing body in an alley at midnight and tell him a story.

            "It's going to be a long night, and this will help pass the time. It's an exciting story, for the most part, so I daresay you won't have trouble keeping awake. It doesn't start with 'once upon a time', or end with 'happily ever after'. It's not a story of kings or queens, dragons or unicorns. It's a story of pain and bloodshed, fear and envy, hatred and betrayal. But it's also a story of love, and loyalty, and strength. It's a story of dancers, singers, artists, thieves, whores, gangsters, and newsboys. And it's a story of life...more than anything, of life."

            That was the last thing the boy wished to hear about. She knew it, this girl, this stranger, but he was at her mercy, and she wanted to keep him awake.

            "Stealth?" She suddenly addressed the darkness, her nightingale call echoing timelessly, like the clatter of the blade.

            In answer, a boy emerged from the shadows, one of the mysterious forms that had drifted across the delirious vision of the broken creature lying on the bricks. The girl said no more to this silent figure, but "Stealth" seemed to understand the nature of her unspoken request; he placed in her hand a stub of candle and a matchbox. Nodding her thanks to him as he disappeared again into his shrouded corner, she struck a match and lowered the flame to the candle's wick, placing the flickering pinpoint of fire beside her charge, so that its ghostly light danced across his battered face, making him squint in annoyance.

            "Light always improves my storytelling. And now, I'm going to begin..."

            "...In the spring of 1898, hope was awakening along with the possums and foxes and bears. Signs of it were visible even in New York City, in the freeing of the East River from its icy prison, the blooming of the trees in Central Park, and the lusty shouts of the newsboys on the corners, hawking headlines with renewed vigor at this golden promise...the end of starving until your stomach felt shredded apart from the emptiness, and nights so bitter cold that the cold invaded your mind, replacing every thought and dream and memory with a single-minded longing for quick, simple death."

            "Spring was a new chance, as it must always be, but even the sunbeams of April cannot chase away the darkness. When New York, like a nobleman going out for the evening, donned his raven cloak of night, the secrets of the city came to life. Do you know those secrets? Of course you do...everyone knows them; they are accepted yet denied, silent infamy, hidden in plain view.

            The seediest of bars. The most provocative of nightclubs. The opium dens. The brothels.

            But I am getting ahead of myself. There are things I must tell you first, things you must remember for this story to have any significance. Four things, specifically, that I need to disclose before this narrative can continue. Four facts about that spring.

            In the spring of 1898, the Newsboys Lodging House on Duane Street, in East Side Manhattan, had a leader, as these establishments inevitably do. He was tough, smart, kind and charismatic, well-liked among the boys. They called him Hunter.

            In this same spring, tension began to build between the newsboys of Duane Street and this very neighborhood, Five Points. A grudge started to develop between the leaders of these two tiny nations, and it was only a matter of time before the grudge exploded into something climatic, something that would serve as a catalyst for a conflict like nothing any of these boys had ever before experienced.

            Thirdly, you must know that in the spring of 1898, a boy by the name of Francis Sullivan was arrested for stealing food from a street vendor, and imprisoned in the...charming...children's penitentiary, ironically called the House of Refuge.

            And finally, you must be aware that in the center of the darkness I described earlier, in the center of the tornado of open secrets and ugly truths, in the very center of the dreaded nocturnal world of Five Points, New York City, was a nightclub called the Midnight Haven. It is there that our story truly begins."


	2. The Haven

**SHOUT OUTS**

**StormShadow21**—"Baldwin-licious"? I love it! ::glomps:: And thank you for noticing that phrase…I liked it too, although it scared me a bit. I'm sorry about that author of yours who hasn't updated in months. Maybe she has killer writer's block…I know how that is. Or maybe she's been writing under an alias. ::grins:: Alias…hehe…

**Trolley**—:blushes:: Glad you enjoyed it! Hope this next chappy measures up!

**Repeat**—Brilliant? You're so sweet! ::wipes tears from eyes:: Not that I believe it, but you guys seriously know how to brighten someone's day…hope to see you review again!

**C.M. Higgins**—Aww! You're in love with my story? What is with these raves? You guys are too nice to me! ("You're too kind to me, Race, you're too kind…" ::giggles::)

**Jacky Higgins**—Here is the fulfillment of that promise you extracted! To answer your questions, you shall indeed find out what happened to the boy in the alley…and as to who the girl and her friends are…well, I recommend reading this chapter! ::winks:;

**Written Sparks**—Thanks for the review, and especially for the reminder! It is indeed easy to forget about your narrator, and I think you will find that I kept your advice in mind when writing this chapter.

**Dreamer Conlon**—I updated! ::smiles hopefully:: Does this count as soon?

**koodles4u**—Wheee! I get koodles? ::grins:: More to the point, thank you for the kind words! I do try hard with my description, although I'm afraid it may be a bit skimpy in this chapter, since I was focusing on dialogue. I LOVE THE MUPPETS TOO! Especially _Treasure Island_ and _Christmas Carol._ And I _love_ Rizzo! ::snogs him::

Author's Note: I'll just be launching right into the story now, but remember, the girl in the alley (you should know who she is after this chapter) is still telling it to the injured boy. You might not be flashing back to them again until the end, or you might see 'em before that…we'll see how things play out. Being the queen of shameless plugs, I will entreat you to check out my new story, "The Vision of Youth", which should be updated soon. (I'm also working on a third one, "Thirteen Ghosts", which I'm kind of in love with, so watch for the debut.) And now, on to the chapter!

Darkness and alcohol, smoke and sweat, dim oil lamps and girls in bright, skimpy attire; this was the atmosphere of the Midnight Haven. Employees and customers arrived at dusk and left at dawn, but no one spoke its name at any time when respectable businesses were open and sunlight dappled the streets. Those who frequented the club woke the next morning with no souvenirs save killer hangovers, except for the lucky ones who might be reminded of their experiences by bruises, knife cuts, and broken bones. Of course, occasionally there was someone who never woke at all; who braved the black city streets and came through the creaking door into the Haven destined never to see daylight again.

One warm, breezy night in the spring of 1898, a slight fifteen-year-old boy, nondescript in appearance, with ebony hair and eyes to match, slipped through the door with a silence which no one else could ever manage. Only he knew how to manipulate the hinges so that they moved as smoothly as if they had been oiled moments before. Closing the door, still without a sound, he slipped fluidly through the pulsing crowd to a petite girl clad in a silky crimson sheath of fabric. Chestnut curls fell to her shoulders, and her olive skin was faded to a sickly yellow in the lamplight. Smoke twirled from a cigar pinched between her fingers as her charming, long-lashed indigo eyes regarded the creature before her.

"Anyone comin'?" she whispered, her voice like honey.

"The Manhattan kid," he replied, his tone light and shy, unusual for a boy his age, and barely audible over the pounding music and the roar of drunken conversation.

Her lips tightened into a line of distress. "Again?"

"He's been comin' almost every night, Doxy."

"Paradox," she corrected idly.

"Sorry."

Sighing, Paradox leaned against the wall, ignoring the calls and beckoning gestures of her colleagues dancing at the front of the club, mixed in with less complimentary phrases concerning her wages, and promises to talk to "the boss" about her.

"You should go," her companion pointed out without much conviction. "Don't wanna get fired, do you?"

"Shut up, Stealth," she suggested, then frowned. "Where's your sister?"

He glanced around nervously and moved a bit closer to Paradox, muttering out of the side of his mouth. "Workin' the crowds. You know you don't see Alias unless--"

"--she wants you to," Paradox finished, rolling her eyes. "You really are two of a kind. And Dire?"

Stealth swallowed. "He's on a job tonight."

The girl shook her head and swore under her breath. "I wish he wouldn't do that."

"If wishes were fishes," Stealth mumbled, punctuating this fragment of wisdom with a disappearance as swift and effortless as those of his twin sister. Paradox shook her head again, knowing that the duo would have half the pockets in the club empty before the night was through, then returned reluctantly to the front of the room to provide the entertainment she was paid for.

The familiar creaking of the door came then, lost, like Stealth's voice, in the whirlwind of noise, and another boy of about sixteen entered hesitantly. Tall and brown-haired, he wore a pink shirt that would stand out in any crowd, though it was not the only trait that set him apart; there was something else about him, some aura he seemed to give off involuntarily, that let those around him realize he didn't really belong.

One would never have guessed it from the warm welcome he received, however. He had scarcely shut the door before males and females detached themselves from the throng to mob him, chattering, laughing, and slapping him on the back.

"Skittery! How wonderful to see you! Didn't I tell you he'd be back? Same as usual, kid?"

The owner of this oily voice was a young man with equally oily ginger hair, reflective green eyes, and a smile like a cat in the sun. He was dressed in a dark suit of fine material, gaudy and out of place in the severely lower-class atmosphere of the club, and indeed, of Five Points. Yet the looks shot at him by the people around him were not of respect, but of hope, eagerness, feral longing...and fear.

The boy called Skittery trembled slightly under the penetrating gaze of this man, his face displaying the same emotions as the others, though fear took center stage, almost washing away the better-repressed emotions. "Y-yeah," he confirmed softly, eyes shifting from side to side, twisting his head around and starting at every noise or movement in the crowded room. "Same as usual."

Beaming even more widely, revealing rows of glittering teeth as white as the moon, the young man put an arm around Skittery's shoulders and guided him into a dark corner, discreetly producing a patched cloth sack that he cradled like a jewel or a newborn baby, rolling down the flap to reveal a plethora of glittering vials and pocket-sized bags.

Executing a combination leap and twirl that revealed everything the hungry-eyed spectators wished to see, Paradox caught sight of the newcomer out of the corner of her eye, just as he fertively accepted a tiny bag from a young redheaded man, offering a handful of coins in exchange. The dancer rolled her eyes, which then darted to the door as it was opened for the third time within the past few minutes. This time the arrival was yet another boy, at least a head taller than Stealth, and around eighteen or nineteen. Ragged, dark gold locks swept across his head as if he had just been through a hurricane, breaking over his forehead in a final wave. Sharp hazel eagle eyes, broad shoulders, a swarthy complexion, and a face decorated with scars made it plain to see how he had earned the nickname Dire.

"Doxy, if you don't stop oglin' every male in the club and get back to dancin', I swear I'll make sure the boss has your head," a chocolate-skinned girl snapped in Paradox's ear as she glided by, before flipping her gauzy violet skirt in a manner that nearly left the audience salivating.

Ignoring Spiderweb's admonishment, Paradox once again slipped from the posse of showgirls to greet her friend as he made his way through the crowd.

"Slackin' on the job as usual, Doxy?" his familiar low growl demanded. She frowned in response, pushing her way over to the bar on the other side of the club, where she stared woefully at one of the high stools, until Dire lifted her from behind and placed her on it as if she was a feather. He straddled the one next to it, and they faced each other to talk.

"So what if I am?" she countered at once, scrutinizing the massive hands that Dire had folded on the bar counter. "Wish _you'd_ do some 'slackin' on the job' now and then. No blood under the fingernails this time, I see. That's an improvement."

Calling out an order of beer to a barmaid who was fluttering around and looking a bit too attentive for his liking, Dire narrowed his eyes at his companion.

"It's a job, Doxy, that's all. It's money. We do what we have to, you know that as well as I do. Girls are just as bad, even if their side jobs usually happen to be more destructive to _them_ than anyone else."

Paradox felt her cheeks burn; every girl working in the Haven had been driven to take such "side jobs" at one time or another, and she was no exception.

Sensing her discomfort but showing no outward sign of remorse, Dire scanned the club with knitted brows. "Where're the twins, then?"

His response was a snort. "Nice try, Dire. Why don'cha just lead me to a haystack and say, 'Where's the needle'?"

Luckily for both of them, the prospect of endless searching was dissolved by the startling appearance of a girl on the stool to Doxy's left. Her frizzy black hair fell to the middle of her back and curled gently at the ends, with a small roll gathered at the top in a faded blue ribbon, and raven eyes gazed expressionlessly from a face the same shade as flour. Except for the length and frizz of her hair, the ribbon and matching navy dress, and the feminine curves of her figure, she was a mirror image of Stealth.

"You called?" Alias smiled cheekily, helping herself to a sip of the beverage that had been delivered, unnoticed, to Dire. A moment later, Stealth materialized just as suddenly on the fourth stool in the row, though without saying a word. Only a slight nod of acknowledgement from his sister alerted Dire and Paradox to his presence. Alias, more outgoing than her brother and the spokesperson of the pair, scanned the two faces before her and gave her interpretation.

"Dire's had a bad night but ain't tellin' us nothin'. Something's botherin' Doxy and she _is_ gonna tell us in a second, when she takes her eyes off that kid walkin' outta here with a fix of opium."

Starting, Paradox tore her gaze from Skittery, who had just slipped quickly through the door with the little bag clutched to his chest, as if he couldn't wait to be out of the place.

_"That's _the problem," she informed them, jerking her head at the door as it swung shut with a rusty screech.

Alias followed her gaze and smirked. "Yeah, I've always thought they should oil those hinges myself--"

Doxy groaned and promptly pushed Alias off her barstool, exchanging a fleeting grin with Stealth as the girl went crashing to the floor, landing in a crouch like a panther, and climbed sulkily back onto her seat.

"You know what I mean," Paradox insisted, struggling to straighten her face at Alias's fierce glare. "That kid from Manhattan comin' here all the time, buyin' drugs off Skull. I don't like it. And I'll betcha anything _Hunter_ don't like it. Don't the rest of you see what's wrong with that picture?"

"I see that Hunter's the leader of the Duane Street newsies," Dire offered, "and Skull's the leader of the Five Points newsies, in addition to bein' the slickest opium dealer around. I see that this could cause _problemos_ between the newsboys of both boroughs. I _don't_ see what it has to do with us."

"Don't you? Think about it!" Paradox took a swallow from the mug of beer that had originally been Dire's, but was gradually being split between Alias and her. "Where do the drug deals happen? Where are kids always gettin' soaked around here? Where do half the newsies _and_ thugs--" She shot a glance at Dire. "--in Five Points hang out after dark, when rumbles tend to take place?"

"You think there'll be trouble here," Dire translated. "And we'll get caught in the middle."

"And_ I _think they shoulda called you 'Paranoid' instead of Paradox," Alias announced derisively. "Newsies and drug dealers can rip each other apart for all I care. If we just mind our own business, we won't get mixed up in it."

It was then that Stealth spoke for the first time since his arrival at the bar. "The innocent," he commented softly, "always get 'mixed up in it'."

This was followed by a brief silence that could have been cut with a knife, which was broken by Paradox leaping nimbly off her stool and starting for the door, tossing an explanation over her shoulder.

"I'm gonna follow him."

And before any of her friends could protest, she had vanished into the night.

* * *

Jogging through the pitch-black streets of Five Points, dodging mangy alley cats, broken bottles, and other debris, Skittery kept a white-knuckle grip on his precious parcel. He could feel the pounding of his heart against his ribcage, and the cold, clammy sweat in the creases of his palms and armpits. If this neighborhood wasn't so small, he wasn't so quick on his feet, or it had not become an established fact that he was a client of the Midnight Haven, he would never have made it back to Duane Street alive. But these three blessings had worked in his favor on each of his sojourns to the club, particularly the last one; no one, even the toughest thugs on the streets of Five Points, wanted to trifle with the Haven, or with a customer of Skull McPhearson.

In the back of his mind, he knew that he was being followed. He had seen someone dart from one alley to another a few streets back, red-faced and out of breath, as if just catching up to him. After that, his pursuer's tactics had improved considerably, but the damage had been done with one sloppy move. Yet there was nothing he could do about it except confront the person, which would surely be deadly; the only solution was to run, fast and hard.

Run he did, through seedy streets and narrow alleys, past crumbling buildings, menacing wild-eyed gangs roaming their patches of territory, small lone newsboys out selling the latest edition with terrified saucer eyes, and girls on street corners with low necklines, lavish makeup, and coy, empty smiles. Finally, the faded wooden sign for Duane Street came into view, illuminated by a nearby street lamp, and Skittery, gasping with relief, dodged the sign and dashed over the cobblestones to the homely little structure called the Newsboys Lodging House: home.

"Heya, Skitt, that you?"

The boy turned automatically toward the approaching figure, deeply relieved to hear a familiar voice. A diminutive Italian boy climbed the steps onto the lodging-house porch, sporting his usual light-hearted smirk, puffing on a cigar clutched in one hand, and rattling coins in his pocket with the other.

"Heya, Race," Skittery greeted cheerfully. "Yeah, it's me. Big winnings at the tracks?"

"Let's just say Weasel won't have to spot me papes for a while," Racetrack Higgins replied, his grin widening. "But where have you--"

He stopped in mid-sentence, grin falling away like a wilted rose petal as his brown eyes settled on the bag in the older boy's hand. Wincing in realization, Skittery reflexively pulled the parcel behind his back, but it was clearly too late. Mouth set in a grim line, Racetrack turned silently away from his friend, opening the door of the lodging house and stepping inside, already calling Hunter's name.

* * *

The spy crouched in the shadow of the porch watched apprehensively as the two boys disappeared inside the building. Having witnessed the brief exchange between them, and hearing the name of their leader on the lips of the smaller boy, she felt a tightening in her stomach. But perhaps Alias had been right; she was over-reacting. Whatever anger Hunter might feel at the corruption of his newsies, and however he might try to take it out on Skull, would surely have no effect on her or her friends. What she felt about the situation was not her usual cool logic...it was something darker, dreamier, far less distinct. _Intuition,_ she supposed you would call it, or even a "premonition". An old aquaintance, better educated than herself, had taught her fancy words like those, along with one she had found particularly appealing: _paradox._

_"It means somethin' that seems to contradict itself. You know...two things that seem like they can't be true at the same time, but sometimes they are...did that make any sense?"_

It made sense to her. A towering thug like Dire with hidden weakness...a tiny doll like herself, or a quiet shrimp like Stealth, with hidden strength.

A Manhattan newsie in Five Points, she decided as she headed down Duane Street, was a paradox. And it could only lead to trouble.

Turning a corner on her way back to her own part of town, Paradox happened to glance in the direction of a lean teenage boy sleeping in a brick alley off the road, his light brown hair tousled, a large black cowboy hat resting beside him. His form was rail-thin, his face pinched and emaciated, as if he hadn't eaten in days, perhaps weeks. Easily suppressing what might have been a faint twinge of pity, she strode on ahead without a backward glance.

* * *

Author's Note: Whew! Finally through with this chapter. It gave me some trouble, but for the most part, it was fun. And I solemnly swear that the next chapter will be virtually all canon newsies, and they will go on to dominate the story. (And no, that's not just a feeble promise I'll make at the end of every chapter. ) I didn't expect the OC's to get so much "screen time" in this chappy, but they sort of...rebelled. Guess they wanted me to set the scene a bit. Do let me know what you think of them, though, and how much more of them you'd like to see; the plot for this fic is still fairly loose, and there's plenty of room for your input to make a difference.

Coming Up Next: Lots of conflict in the Duane Street Lodging House, Stealth does a bit of investigating, Hunter's grudge starts to form, Race and Snitch get into trouble, Skull and his gang are met close-up, and the identity of the "mysterious" boy with the cowboy hat is revealed...and that's just a tantalizing little preview! (IteyMuse: ::raises eyebrow:: Alias, hon...it wasn't tantalizin'...) Alias: Shut up, you. ::snogs him::


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